The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 13: Captives: Section III: Aurelius

Aurelius: The Palace: Qemassen

The doors were locked, the windows barred. Guards marched beneath Aurelius's windows carrying spears and shields, their orders to break his bones should he so much as attempt to leave.

Aurelius was in no state to fight them, but if he had to, he would. He had to stop Dashel's execution.

He ripped his robe down the centre, creating two more strips to add to the shredded fabric he'd knotted into a rope. His fingers worked faster than his thoughts, winding the ruined cloth around the already substantial coil spread across the bed.

Get past the garden and he could steal a horse. Once he had the horse, he'd ride hard down the Talefa Hill. He could make the Eghri. He would be there in time to save Dashel.

They'd dragged Dashel downhill a few hours earlier, according to one of Aurelius's guards. If Aurelius had been stronger, if he hadn't let them drug him to oblivion, he could have held Dashel in his arms days ago.

Then what?

He had to reach Bree.

And then?

They'd run. All three of them would leave Qemassen.

At least with the execution imminent, Dashel and Bree would be in the same place at the same time. Aurelius only had one destination.

He tugged the final knot experimentally—it felt tight, but the fabric wasn't very strong. Lucky then, that the drop to the ground wasn't far.

A laugh burst past his lips, hysterical.

Out the window, past the guards, past the gardens, steal a horse, run, run, run.

Aurelius wound the rope around his arm then bolted to his feet. Pain hobbled him, radiating from his back down his legs and upwards to his neck. He could still feel the lash, and worse, the thud of his knees hitting the wooden platform as he fell.

He stumbled.

Don't shake. Be steady. Dashel needs you.

Aurelius held his hand out, watching it tremble, willing it to stop. He willed himself to do most things and succeeded, why not now?

They'd fed him more sapenta than usual, along with who knew what else. He'd managed to bring the last dose up with his fingers, but his head still felt leaden.

Aurelius ran his hand through his coarse, unwashed curls. He laughed again, nervousness pulling his emotions this way and that.

Why had Dashel done it? Aurelius could think of no satisfactory answer. According to what little he'd been able to pry from Ashtaroth, Dashel's attack had been more vicious even than what it had looked. Their father had been stabbed countless times.

But why the blood on Aurelius's bed and floor? A scream had woken Aurelius from one of his sapenta-induced slumbers, but it wasn't Dashel he'd woken to, only his own father standing over his bed.

It didn't matter. Whatever Dashel's reason, he'd had one, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with Zioban and the slave rebellion. Dashel couldn't possibly be Zioban, not only because of the logistics, but because it went against everything he believed. He'd never have hurt Hima's boys, couldn't possibly have ordered Djana and Thanos killed, not to mention the brutality Aurelius and Bree had experienced at the slaves' hands.

Aurelius would ask Dashel all about it once they were free. It would make a good story, he was sure.

He sucked in a deep breath and staggered to the window. One end of the rope was already secured to the bed post. It should hold. Maybe. It wasn't ideal, but should he fall or the rope break, at least there were the guards to try and catch him.